The Hogsmeade Chronicles
by smallpaperstars
Summary: Series of 50 oneshots, all centering around the quaint village of Hogsmeade. Quaint...yet strangely Hogwarts teachers are living out their teenage dreams, odd creatures seem to flit in and out, and a certain pair of twins are banned from going within a hundred feet of Zonko's. Written for the 'Setting Boot Camp Challenge'.
1. Chapter 1: All That I've Waited For

_She's the one, _thought Roger Davies. _All that I've waited for. _

Fleur Delacour floated on ahead of him through the village of Hogsmeade like a fairy princess. Her long silver hair glistened with snowdrops like a pearly tiara, and her every step made a prima ballerina look like Godzilla.

Suffice it to say, she was what every princess-adoring five-year-old girl wanted to be when they grew up.

And the girl every heterosexual male at Hogwarts wanted to get with.

Roger Davies had practically had to club Lee Jordan over the head to be the first to ask the French goddess out on a date. And lo and behold, the goddess had descended from on high with fey step and golden smile, and said...

Well, he wasn't completely sure. She'd said something accent-y. Which only contributed to the overall otherworldly image.

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled, and angels mugged him while singing celestial praises.

"Roger," she spoke. The angels robbed him of his wallet and threw his body in an alleyway.

"Yes," he said dreamily.

She said something else, something utterly unintelligible, and it still sounded like bells ringing.

"Uh-huh," he managed to articulate. She frowned as if confused and repeated herself. "Yes, of course," he agreed, trying to memorize the way she tilted her delicate head when she asked a question.

She humphed and tossed her head, striding away. Roger mapped the contours of her swaying hips.

{~Fleur's POV~}

Ugh, this stupid English boy! Fleur could have screamed to the heavens, but he probably wouldn't have understood that either. He would have stared at her some more like a lovesick little _chien._ All she wanted was the bathroom, in the name of all that was holy!

The only reason she'd agreed to go out with him was so that she could practice her _anglais._She had excitedly studied over the summer, exhilirated at the idea that she could learn something new, and had become fairly fluent. At least, the girls seemed to understand her. But _les hommes..._still as braindead as in her home country. The only language they spoke to her there was staring too. It was boring, not to mention rude and unsettling.

She caught sight of her reflection in a shop window as she stomped past. It was as if someone had superimposed her grandmother's Veela features over her own, completely obscuring her true face.

If she could, she'd rip it off with her fingernails.

Fleur knew she was beautiful; she was reminded of it nearly everyday. But it had never truly felt like her own face, her own body. It was just her grandmother's cheekbones and her mother's long legs. She wished that people could ignore that and actually listen to her speak. She loved learning. She loved Beaxbatons, because every time she turned around there was something new to discover. She wanted a life of adventure – far-off lands and mysterious secrets. Last summer, she had modelled witch's robes in three countries. But what she was really proud of was the article she had submitted last week to the _Enchanted Economist._ Fleur was entranced by magical monetary systems.

But no boy ever wanted to discuss the lack of arbitrage in Gringotts. No girl ever wanted to talk about the market inefficiency of the galleon. All they did was stare.

Sometimes Fleur had to remind herself that eyes are a necessary part of the human functions and that it is socially unacceptable to claw them out.

She stormed into a little tea-shop called the Three Broomsticks and sat down at a table. The waiter started over and Fleur wanted to cry, because he would just stare too and she would never get to ask where the bathroom was.

"Er, miss? Are you all right?"

Fleur looked up incredulously. The red-headed boy was staring. But he looked concerned, not mesmerized, and there was no stream of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. _Incroyable. _

"I am fine," she said in careful English, watching carefully to see if he understood.

He did. "Good – I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you part-Veela?"

She tensed, but he only looked interested, not fanatical. "Yes, my grandmother – "

"Awesome!" he said enthusiastically. "I met Veelas in Egypt! Not the nicest, if you don't mind me saying. But I was digging for treasure in the Pyramid of Khufu and..."

"_Quelle surprise_!" she exclaimed. "My mother's grandmother is from Egypt. Perhaps they are family." She beamed at him, and he smiled back. She could see genuine interest in his eyes in what she had to say.

"My name's Bill," he said cheerfully and shook her hand. "Bill Weasley."

"_Enchante, _Bill. My name is Fleur May I ask...why are you talking to me?" She blushed the minute the words left her mouth. It sounded so stupid. Unfriendly. She'd meant why wasn't he staring, and even if he understood it that way she would sound so conceited.

He laughed, but not in derision. "I've seen plenty of interesting things in my time, Fleur. A tribe of Veela. Lizards big enough to swallow a Mayan temple. Not that you remind me of a lizard," he said hastily. "But, you know, it does take away your fear of some things. Like talking to women. And it teaches you to look deeper than appearances."

Fleur smiled radiantly. He was the opposite of boring.

Bill smiled back. "My break ends in ten minutes. Want to have a drink after that?"

"_Oui_!" she exclaimed, and blushed again.

He laughed. "Great! Ten minutes. Not that they pay nearly enough," he grumbled. "The cost of living exchange rate doesn't nearly balance out my salary, I can't wait to get back to Gringotts..."

"You work at _Gringotts_?" The biggest bank of the Wizarding World! It was her dream to get an internship there. And oh, he understood economics! Life was smiling on her today.

Just then Roger wandered in, looking desperate. Spotting her, his face slackened into a mindless, dreamy smile. "Fleur!"

"How interrelated is the fiscal policy of a newly developed country with the residential investment sector?" she asked him coolly. The economic terms had been the first ones she'd learned.

His jaw swung open. "Hnng?"

"Extremely," supplied Bill with a smirk.

"And where is the bathroom?"

Roger looked positively gormless. "Go down the corridor on your left. It's the first door," supplied Bill. "Is Prince Charming here all right?" he added in a stage whisper.

She giggled and left Bill examining Roger like a strange sea creature. The bathroom was free. _Finalement! All that I've waited for. _And she'd found so much more.


	2. Chapter 2: Smile

**Short and sweet this time. Prompt was 'smile'.**

It was her first trip to Hogsmeade, and Hermione Granger's smile could not. How many times had she read about Hogsmeade in _Hogwarts, a History_? How many times had the Weasley twins boasted about buying fascinating magical objects from Zonko's? How many times had she imagined the taste of one of Madame Rosmerta's butterbeer?

The answer was lots. Lots and lots.

The only cloud on the happy horizon was that Harry could not join her and Ron. She knew that at this moment he was probably moping around the castle. Instead of doing something productive, like, say, his Potions homework. But she had a funny feeling she was going to end up doing it for him.

Well, it was his fault, in a way. If he'd just kept his temper and gotten his uncle to sign his form...She shook her head a little to clear the unworthy thought. It was completely the fault of that horribly abusive family of his.

Hermione was shaken from her doldrums by Ron, who grabbed her arm. "We're almost there! I can see the clocktower!" he said excitedly.

Hermione craned her neck. "I see it too! Do you know, that clocktower was struck by lightning in the early fifteen-hundreds and had to be rebuilt?"

"Why in the name of Merlin's pants would I know something like that?"

"We learned about it yesterday in History of Magic!"

"Oh," he grinned. "I was sleeping." She rolled her eyes.

He laughed, seeming remarkably lighthearted. "Oh, let it go, 'Mione!" It was the first time he'd ever called her that, and she was a little surprised at the pleasant shiver that ran up her spine. An absent smile spread across her face, and because she couldn't read thoughts, she didn't know that Ron thought her smile was beautiful.

"Let's go visit Zonko's first!" he said excitedly.

They trudged on over the loamy ground and finally saw the town in full. Hermione caught her breath in delight. Her mother had gotten a snowglobe for Christmas that contained a tiny town, and Hogsmeade was the perfect copy. She could have studied it all day and recited the history of each building, but Ron pulled her along.

"If we don't get there before Fred and George all the Dungbombs will be gone."

"You have high aspirations in life, Ronald Weasley."

"I'm aiming for professional Dungbomb lobber," he grinned. She laughed and felt the shiver again.

"You'll have tough competition with your brothers, then."

"Unless I hit them first. They'll be too busy looking for the soap and sponge to do anything else." She laughed again. How long had it been since she had laughed like this? She had been so caught up in Divination drama and studying and Harry nearly getting expelled.

"Well, let's run then," she said. "We wouldn't want the soap supply depleted." Ron chuckled and took her hand, loping off towards Zonko's.

She stared down at their hands and felt a shiver throughout her whole body. Her breath hitched a little, and she smiled slowly.

Nobody could make her smile like Ronald Weasley.

**Review my darlings :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Sanctuary

**Angst Alert.**

Madam Rosmerta's bar was a hospital.

It had all the things a hospital had: anesthetic, to drown out the pain. People often drank until they couldn't feel anything.

Funny smells. She was constantly amazed at the variety of orifices these odors emanated from.

She herself functioned as both orderly and therapist. Anyone who got too raucous was thrown out in the street, while anyone in need of comfort found a willing ear and reassuring words (and open hand for tips).

But the greatest similarity between the Three Broomsticks and St. Mungo's was the scars.

Inside and out, everyone who stopped for a drink was scarred and looking for sanctuary. Some were more obviously disfigured than others. Mad-Eye Moody and his missing eye used to be regulars, until...And Lavender Brown stopped in whenever she could. Rosmerta gave her free butterbeers and never commented on the three jagged slashmarks ripping open her face. Lavender wore them proudly and never tried to hide them, because they were badges of honor. Oliver Wood came frequently and boasted of his Quidditch days to anyone who would listen. It was hard for him to fly now with only one arm.

And of course there were people whose scars ran too deep to see. George Weasley had bought Zonko's with his twin brother. Now he ran it alone, along with his shop in Diagon Alley. Rosmerta was always a little shocked when she saw him come in alone; then she remembered that a razor's edge had cut away his brother from him, and she gave him a free drink as well. Harry and Ginny Potter had come in once, bringing their godson, Teddy, to meet her. Harry's scar shone like a beacon on his forehead, but even Teddy could not see the scars that crisscrossed his own body. He had been too young to know the parents that had been ripped away from him. And Fleur Delacour had come once as well, joining her husband a few days after the battle. Rosmerta was shocked at her diminished beauty; her once perfect skin was pale and lusterless, hanging off her frame, which even after giving birth was skeletal. Her sister had taken some of Fleur's light with her when she died.

Tonight was the one year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. The anniversary of so many deaths.

The hospital was full of open wounds and unhealed scars.

Take the corner, for instance. There was a group of teenagers who had had at least three drinks apiece sitting in what she wryly thought of as the 'emergency room'. They certainly seemed determined to intoxicate themselves into oblivion. It was the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They had attended a memorial service at Hogwarts honoring the fallen.

"Anything more I can get you, dears?" she asked them.

"A couple more butterbeers," the captain said. Or at least that was what she could make out.

"Our seeker would be nice too," added one of the Chasers. She only looked about sixteen, but her eyes were swollen with both tears and intoxication. In normal circumstances Rosmerta would not have served an underage customer. But alcohol was sometimes necessary to swab a wound clean.

The girl started to cry. Loud, drunken sobs. "Colin was only sixteen! An' he'd wanted to play Quidditch for years. He tol' me - he tol' me he'd practice, every night after his roommates went to sleep. He sneaked out to the pitch every night and picked the broomshed lock, so that he could get good enough to be like Harry Potter."

"An' he made the team," said one of the boys when the girl was crying too hard to speak. "An' he was the best seeker the Gryffindor team ever had."

"To Colin," toasted the captain, firewhisky sloshing everywhere as he raised his tankard.

"Colin," hiccupped the others. The girl continued to sob, and Rosmerta heard, jumbled up among the tears and wails: "I loved him. And I never got to tell him."

The alcohol wasn't just anesthetic. Sometimes it opened old scars instead of numbing them.

But sometimes it was necessary to do surgery on old wounds to remove some of the cancerous guilt and grief.

**I read that Fleur's sister was killed during the Battle, which I had never heard before – can someone please verify? If she wasn't...just go with it ;)**

**Colin is obviously meant to be Colin Creevey. I love that little guy and his stupid camera, and I always wondered what happened to him during his 6th year, when everything went to pieces. Maybe he would try to be even more like Harry so that he could be strong like his hero. **

**Thanks to all the beautiful souls who have reviewed. I love writing this:) **

**Keep reading and reviewing, more to come soon!**


	4. Chapter 4: Dusk, Parte Une

"Mother!" yelled Peter. "The traveling fair's come!"

She looked up, hands restrained by the bread dough she was kneading. "At last. There's a few coins in my apron, it's hanging up there. Ask your sister to take you."

"Mother, I'm _five and seven weeks old_. I can go by myself."

His mother smiled softly. "Then you take your sister. She might need help finding her way around."

Peter brightened. He liked the idea of being in charge of his sister instead of the other way around. "All right, Mother! I'll bring you back a sweetcake." He kissed her smooth cheek and darted off, money in hand.

"Alaizabeth!" Peter cried. He walked carefully beside the riverbed, not wanted to get his already worn shoes even dirtier, hopping up to see over the tall reeds. "Traveling fair's here!"

His sister's head appeared suddenly as she straightened. She was knee deep in the river with her skirts pulled up, trying to catch fish. "What, now?" she said in shock.

"Yes, I'm supposed to take you," said Peter proudly.

The look of shock had not faded from her face, which was as beautiful as their mother's. "Is the...is the minstrel with them?"

"Who cares about the minstrel, they've got trained dragons," said Peter. "Let's go into Hogsmeade Towne before all the good seats are gone!"

His sister hastily splashed out of the river, snatched her wand from the bank, and cast a drying spell. Her skirts were still wrinkled and black hair tangled like a birds' nest, but she was no longer dripping. "Let's go," Alaizabeth said. Her large green eyes were hopeful.

Peter found his friends at the dragon exhibit and stayed with them all day, touring the fair. They bought some of the wonderful magical candy and ate it faster than a heartbeat. After stuffing themselves, they walked around till dusk, envying the rich shopkeepers their money, and speculating what they would buy if they had any.

Finally, it was dark. "See you tomorrow," said Peter to his friends.

They laughed. "Yeah, we'll buy some of the firewhisky," said one excitedly. "I know a man who'll give it to five years olds for just one extra penny."

Peter laughed, then went off to find his sister. He'd expected to find her at the fairy show, but she was nowhere to be found. He tried the perfume stand. No Alaizabeth. With a growing sense of panic, he started asking anyone if they had seen her.

"Try the minstrel's tent," a townsperson told the farmboy kindly. "I saw her there an hour ago.

Peter ran off towards the darkened minstrel's tent. It looked empty. Discouraged, he started to leave then paused when he heard voices.

" – mustn't tell anyone, my love," said the minstrel's sonorous voice quietly, as if telling a secret. This kept him from going in...what was the secret? Secrets were bad. His father had had a secret, and when his mother had found it out, his father had left.

He heard his sister murmur something, then sob. "I know, I know, but if we're to make our away we must be silent."

Alaizabeth's voice grew stronger. "I'm leaving a note."

The other hesitated. "All right. But then we must leave. I finally made enough money to support us."

Peter burst into the tent. "Alaizabeth! Where are you going?"

She started at the sudden noise, then cried even louder.

"No note," said the minstrel harshly. "We must go! Now!" He grabbed her elbow and spun on the spot. With a loud crack, he vanished.

Peter stared at the empty space, hoping his sister would come back. He waited. And waited. Waited until the moon was high in the dusking sky. Waited until his face was damp with tears.

She didn't come back.

And he didn't want to go home. Because he had been in charge of her.


	5. Chapter 5: Guitar, Parte Deux

**Drabbly lil' thing, part deux. A couple notes on this and the preceding chapter: I picture it taking place around the mid-1700's. It's not supposed to be happy. It's meant to depict flawed characters and what time and separation can do to them.**

Peter stepped into the old farmhouse. "Mother," he called. His mother appeared with tired eyes but gentle smile. Premature gray streaked her black hair"Yes, my son? All is well at home, I hope?"

He smiled. "Yes. Annamarie is doing well, as is our baby. I just wanted to let you know...the traveling fair's here." His mother seemed to wilt slightly. Every year for seventeen years she had gone to the fair, and every year she had come back a little older. His sister (Peter refused to think her name) and the minstrel had never returned.

"All right," she said. "You get your wife and the baby. Let's go into Hogsmeade Towne."

The fair was older too. The colors seemed less bright. The dragons no longer roared; the winged horses no longer tossed their heads with spirit. And the people looked faded too. Their faces blurred unremarkably before his face.

"It's been a lean year for them," he remarked. His mother nodded, hand gripping his arm for support.

They walked around a little in silence. Peter wondered if the fair had diminished as much as he'd thought, or if he was the one who was too much older. The concept of a fair was much more lackluster now, especially with the ghost of his sister's memory all around. She was there looking delighted at the fairy exhibit, at the butterbeer stand twisting a strand of hair around her finger impatiently...

At the once brightly striped minstrel's tent right in front of him.

Peter heard his mother gasp as if her heart was breaking a second time. Then he was running.

With a rip, the tent flap was cast aside, and the audience inside quieted. It stared at him with a dozen eyes. But he only saw one pair, a bright green pair that the years had not dulled.

"Hello, Peter," said Alaizabeth.

After his mother had recovered from the shock, she sat on one of the vacated chairs and stared at the floor. She had not said a single word to her daughter since seeing her again for the first time in seventeen years. When Alaizabeth put a hand up to her mother's head to touch the unfamiliar gray streak, their mother had flinched and moved away, sitting a good distance away

Alaizabeth gazed at her mother, looking desolate, then turned to her brother. "Hugh and I traveled for six weeks before he left me. After that...I was too embarrassed to come home. I couldn't face the little brother who couldn't understand, a mother who had been left a second time...I was the weakest coward in the world. All I had was one of Hugh's guitars and a young, pretty face. And that was enough to earn bread. Two years ago I joined this fair. It's changed since I was sixteen. Changed like I have. And you've grown, Peter. You have a child! I can't believe it. You're so old. But the village is the same, at least."

Peter did not move. She looked at his hard face and started to cry. It did not soften him. "I was supposed to look after you," he said. "How could you leave, Alaizabeth? We couldn't do the farmwork by ourselves. Mother lost the farm. All she has now is the house. And I needed a sister."

She cried even harder. He heard an echo across the years, an echo of a sixteen year old girl sobbing in this same darkened tent. She had not grown up after all.

"I'll stay, I earned money enough, I'll buy the land back –" she sobbed.

"You can't buy back seventeen years, Alaizabeth," Peter said. "I'm sorry. I miss you so much. Everyday, I miss you so much it hurts. And now you're back...and I still miss you. Give it time and maybe that girl will come back someday. But right now, I don't know this stranger you are. Even though you haven't changed." He went over to his mother, who was still staring at the ground blankly. He took her delicate hand. "Let's go, Mother." She got up mechanically and they left the tent. But she paused at the ripped away door and looked back at her daughter, who was sobbing inconsolably.

Peter heard his mother give a strangled sound in her throat, then she flew to her daughter's side and clutched her tightly. "Oh, my darling, you've returned. You've come back. Oh, my sweet girl."

Alaizabeth held her mother like she was about to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't hold her together. "I missed you, Mother," she whispered. And gazing at the tearful tableau in front of him, Peter longed for the old days so fiercely that he wondered the world did not transform around him.

**Please review, my darlings :)**


	6. Chapter 6: Hue

**This poem is meant to represent Aberforth settling in at the Hog's Head. Open to interpretation.**

The little bird

so far away from home

landed

feet whispering

onto the roof.

Was this home? So far away from eggmates?

The little bird

so far away from home

sang

voice rasping

into the blue air.

Was this home? Such a cold wind?

The little bird

so far away from home

fluttered

wings hued blue.

Was this home? The dull colored roof?

The little bird

not so far away from home

landed

feet clattering

onto the roof.

Small beak and clawed feet

full of twigs.

This was home.

**Thoughts?**


	7. Chapter 7: Convoluted

Sirius Black loped up the street. He was in his Animagus form, which meant he had to look up to see peoples' faces. They swam in front of him in blurry black and white. Far clearer were the scents wafting out of the shops. Warm honey, burnt cinnamon, melting chocolate. Sirius had to suppress the canine part of himself that was slavering to burst into the shop and eat everything in it. Well, that part wasn't all canine.

"It's a DOG!" screamed a little girl. She ran up to him and started scratching his head. He wagged his tail appreciatively.

Her mother walked over nervously. "Come on, darling, I thought we were going to Gran's. I don't think this dog wants to be petted." Oh yes indeed he did want to be petted.

A man joined them and laughed, patting Sirius firmly. Maybe he should have felt demeaned as a human being, but all he felt were the fleas jumping off his fur. "Your mother's just scared because this dog looks like a Grim, sweetheart. But they aren't real. Don't be afraid."

"Why would I be afraid?" pouted the little girl. "He's sweet. I want to keep him."

Some part of Sirius' convoluted dog/human brain sounded off a warning, but it was strangled and thrown into a river by the part that was still being blissfully scratched.

"No," said the mother firmly.

The little girl started to argue, but the mother took her hand and started walking away. "Wait!" said the girl.

She ran back to Sirius and scratched his head, then hugged him. "I was going to save this for Gran, but you look lonely." She took out from her jacket a doll, made of a scrap of felt with button eyes. "Mum helped me make it. Her name is Marley. She likes lemonade, and she likes friends. Don't lose her or she'll toot in your bed." And with that last impressive sentence, the little girl put the doll on the ground and rejoined her mother and father. They walked over to Honeydukes, where a fat, whitehaired old woman opened her arms lovingly.

_Marley._ That was ironic. Wasn't there some happy-go-lucky retriever named Marley? But the name struck something deeper in his memory...A warm summer afternoon next to a girl with golden hair, painting her nails...Sirius shook his head to clear it, then gently picked up the doll in his mouth and loped off to his lonely cave.


	8. Chapter 8: Glisten

**I love the idea of the conflict between light and dark that is so prevalent in Harry Potter. One of the darkest symbols in the books is the dementors, so I played around a little with the idea of the dementors looking for something bright. The parentheses are meant to imply the fear with which people speak of them. Doesn't your mental voice get quieter and deeper when you read parentheses? Prompt was glisten.**

Cold and dead

(cold) and (dead)

weaving an arachnic song

a (cold) a (dead) a (delicate) song

around the candlelit village

warm in spite of the

(cold) snow.

The yellow friendly warm lights glisten on the

uninvited snow.

The song slithers through the night

until the lights are

(cold) and (dead)

as if

being viewed through

a glass windowpane

frosted with ice.

The (dead) things

the (cold) things

are moths to a flame

They gather the village into the chill of winter,

hoping for some warmth,

but all they get

is frozen embers.

(Cold) and (dead) remnants

of a light

that whispered out.


	9. Chapter 9: Petite

Draco Malfoy was wearing a wig and crouching on the floor of the girls' bathroom.

It was a low point for him. He had almost literally hit rock bottom in the form of this smelly, dank bathroom tile. For an hour, he had been waiting for a girl from school to come in so that he could give her a certain package, and so far the only people to come in had been Madame Rosmerta and an old woman who furtively released a live chinchilla from her robes. It had scurried around the disgusting floor, sniffed Draco, then escaped through the open window. He envied it.

"Aren't girls supposed to go to the bathroom all the time?" he muttered madly. In spite of the freezing winter air, he was sweating. He thought longingly of the humid butterbeer fumes just through the door of the bathroom, where Pansy and his other Slytherin friends were no doubt downing mug after mug of piping hot...

_Focus_, he told himself miserably. _You've been chosen. And if the Dark Lord wants you to freeze to death on this revolting floor, then you will freeze to death on this revolting floor. _He could see his breath puffing out in icy clouds.

Just then the door opened. Reddish light poured out over Draco, and he drank in the delicious smells and warm air. Katie Bell, petite and brunette, walked right past where he huddled in the corner and began washing her hands in the sink, humming to herself and examining her makeup. He'd never really noticed Katie before...she was so much older, and they had never crossed paths.

And he was about to ruin her life.

If she succeeded in delivering the package she would be blamed for the death of Albus Dumbledore. If she did not succeed, there was every chance that she would be cursed into insanity.

_Focus, _he told himself. His breath puffed out with increasing frequency. _No second thoughts._ He drew out his wand and whispered, "Imperio."


	10. Chapter 10: Keep You Warm At Night

She was

not herself.

A woman living in a man's world

where cursing was her mother tongue

alcohol ran through her veins

and strength was for everyone.

Throwing men

dizzy with drink

into the streets

took armstrength, heartstrength.

She was

born into this world

birthed in the kitchen

and raised in the bar.

She was

nursed on butterbeer

and instead of a blanket

firewhiskey kept her warm at night.

She was

not what others thought she should be

But -

she was herself.


	11. Chapter 11: Angel

Hogsmeade's cemetery was overgrown. With weeds, with graves, with snow. And yet no one had the heart to trim it down; no one had the heart to pull the determined ivy out of the ground or build another cemetery for more room or shovel the snow away. I don't know why. Maybe they thought that if they left things just perfect, if they did not disturb the ethereal brilliance of the scene, that its inhabitants would rejoin the world of the living.

Or they were just lazy.

I trudged through the silent pews of tombstones, its cathedral emptiness hollowing me out. It didn't matter how many times I came; the graveyard would always be full of ghosts for me. The years had not diminished its chilling emptiness.

Finally I came to the grimmest headstone of them all. A beautiful marble angel held court over its grave. But the years had not been kind to the angel. One of its wings had chipped off. Its features had weathered away, leaving an eerie blankness. Outstretched hands displayed broken fingers.

It was also stark black.

Against the white snow it stood out like a sinner in church. Some years ago children from the school had vandalized it, casting a charm. It had flickered in neon colors like a shop on the Vegas strip, until the charm wore off, leaving the angel drained of color. It was so dark it seemed to absorb light.

How appropriate.

"Severus," I said. "It's been a while." Of course the angel did not respond. It was an ironic silence; I could almost hear my former teacher's voice.

_Miss Weasley. Come to finish this pathetic imitation of a Muggle seraph off at last? I must confess I believe you lack the skill._

"The new Potions Master's rubbish, Neville tells us," I said aloud. "Can't tell the tail of a newt from a - well, let's just say at least you knew what you were doing."

_Incompetence bores me. One reason why you never captured my attention in class._

"I don't know if we ever even spoke extensively, Professor. I sat in your class for six years."

_I suppose there's always graveside repentance._

"Well, you're the only one buried here that I haven't visited. I just put flowers on Tonks and Lupin's graves. None for you...you never seemed like much of a floral fan." I looked up at the angel. "Who on earth ordered this? You never seemed like much of an angel fan either."

_I believe it was Ministry designated. No living relatives. Isn't it bitterly ironic? The dark angel._

I laughed. "Spreading dark wings of misery over all who come near. And yet, though fallen, still an angel."

The imaginary voice was silent. _I never was much of a poetry fan either._

"That's a shame. You're a classic tragic hero."

If I could have seen the voice, its owner would have been shuddering. _Please tell me I'm not being put on a pedestal._

"I think they actually just named a holiday in your honor."

_Kill me._

I smiled. "Now I know this is just in my head. You were never this funny in real life."

_Thank you for visiting my humble domicile, Ginny Weasley._

"You're welcome. I hope heaven's having a parade in your honor up there."

I turned away from the grave and wrapped my coat tighter as I walked away. I could feel the frigid gaze of the angel boring into my back. The fallen angel with white veneer, painted over with empty black.

**This one was actually interesting to write. Please review!**


End file.
